


Turnabout's Fair Play

by RubyFiamma



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Bleeding, Bruising, Gang Rape, Gap Filler, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Rape Aftermath, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:59:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/pseuds/RubyFiamma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wallace learns what he needs to do in order to stay on top while he's still fresh on the streets of Ergastulum.</p><p>{Or in which the fic picks up after the fact, and Wallace is left to deal with the aftermath and happens to get an interesting proposition from woman in the shadows}</p><p>Please see additional warnings in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout's Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

> The following story involves the rape of a minor and the aftermath and the gap filler as to how he later became a prostitute. It is in no way meant to romanticize the trauma or the profession, nor is it meant to sexualize the minor. The acts are heavily implied but are non descriptive. Please continue at your own risk.

**Turnabout's Fair Play**

* * *

 

It starts with him splayed out and down on his knees, covered in the grime and filth of Ergastulum still clinging to his bruised and broken skin. He should have known better than to leave the sanctity of home by himself, but it’s getting harder and harder to look Nicolas in the face when all he sees is the shadow of his family’s blood splattered across it.

He thought he knew what waiting for death felt like, each time his father used him as an outlet for the incurable rage deeply seeded within that only seemed to rear it’s ugly head whenever Wallace would be around. Each searing burn from the lit end of a cigarette he received, every clout that blurred his vision or every boot that fractured a rib, for every strand of hair that was ripped from his head has never made him feel as dead as he does right now in this moment.

There’s a ringing in his ears from one of the men that clocked him in the side of his head with the butt of his gun, but off in the distance Wallace can hear the clean  _chink of_  metal latching, muffled hollers of victory and scraping laughter that grates on every one of the boy’s nerves. He can’t feel his body anymore, just the oppressive muggy heat that sticks to his skin and the beads of sweat and volatile _slime_ that roll down the bare length of his spine. His hands that are braced out in front of him on the damp and dirty cobblestone were scraped and raw from an earlier struggle, but Wallace no longer feels the throb of pain pulsing through them. The skin at his knees is chafed and bleeding, and there may be blood mixing with the salt across his sweat-slicked forehead from another wound he sustained that threatens to trickle past his eyebrow and burn in the well of his good eye.

The muscles in his thighs are taut and trembling, thrumming erratically like a tension-tight wire. He can feel his entire body shaking with the paper-thin will to remain upright, to keep _some_ shred of dignity but he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

Echoes of cheap soles scuffing off the flagstone resonate between the broken brick walls that line the alley as the group of men that raped him leave with their high fives and their sick pride. It’s only then that Wallace and his façade collapse, where he gives in to the tremors that plague his overused body and he lies the puddle of his own filth for what seem like hours because he lacks the strength, or even the _will_ to lift a finger. There are no tears, not yet. He won’t let this group of men think they broke him. He’s _Wallace Arcangelo_ , son of Domenico Arcangelo  – _nobody_ can break him, not even his own father.

He’s tired and worn out and feels like a disgusting whore, and for a minute Wallace huffs a laugh that sounds more like a choking sob to his ears. His eyes slide shut with exhaustion, his mouth is as dry as cotton and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth like glue. It’s ironic, he thinks, that he’d end up like the mother he’s never known. If it weren’t for the maids that whispered slander around every corner of his household, he’d never know anything about the woman. But now he knows that this must have been how her life was until the end. It’s only fitting now that the bastard son of a whore should meet the same fate.

It’s likely only been minutes since the men have left the alley but it feels like he’s been lying there for aeons when he hears the approaching _clack_  of stilettos on stone. He’s too wasted to move so the only defense Wallace has left is laughter, and it starts off dry and sour, scorching it’s way up his achingly raw throat until he feels like he’s lost his own mind and the laughter that spills out of his mouth and bounces off the walls sounds like the maniacal laughter of a madman.

“I suppose you can say you can’t change your situation, but finding humour in it may change your outlook on it.”

It’s the voice of a woman with a silver tongue, her tone isn’t cold but it sends a shiver down Wallace’s spine. It brings his laughter to a skidding halt but he isn’t afraid, there isn’t much more that anyone could do to him now except end his misery and he welcomes that.

“Come now, get up. Dust off those knees and pull your pants up from down around your ankles,” the voice instructs. “You are in the presence of a lady and you’ve still got some pride left in you, I can tell. Don’t sully it with your bare bottom up in the air for all of Ergastulum to see.”

She’s right, Wallace supposes, at least about him being in a woman’s company. However, she is wrong about his pride. He’s got nothing left but a tattered shirt and soiled slacks and a filthy eye patch hanging off his ear by a single strap.

“What do you want?” he croaks, the words coming out in fragmented language that reminds him of Nicolas when he speaks.

“The question isn’t what _I_ want, but it is what can _I_ do for _you,_ child.”

The woman’s words strike off in his veins like the ignition of a match, setting fire to his blood. He snaps his head off the ground, his hair clinging to his cheeks in clumps, and twists his body around enough to look the woman in the face. He can’t features, only a curvaceous silhouette that blots out the setting sun and the glowing ember of a cigarette that dances through the darkness like it belongs to a ghost.

“Who said I wanted your help?” Wallace snaps and his swollen throat closes around abused chords before he can gain the edge of acid he wants present in his tone.

“You don’t have to want it,” she answers, the cinder sparking fiery-orange as she takes a drag of her cigarette. “But you _do_ need it.”

There’s a growl that burns in Wallace’s chest and there’s itching heat crawling all under his skin. “I don’t need anything from you, you old hag. Just get outta here!”

The woman remains silent for a moment, and by now Wallace has become a little more self-aware as the flush of embarrassment rises from his chest to his hairline. She’s doing nothing now but playing with him, and he’s smart enough not to fall for her trap, whatever her angle may currently be.

Wallace drags himself into a sitting position, reaches out a bloody and scuffed up hand to tug his pants up to his knees. “I can take care of myself.”

She’s moving closer now, each step is slow and elegant, like satin billowing in a breeze and Wallace narrows his obscured vision by squinting his eye. The woman is voluptuous, but still very much beautiful in a low cut, crushed velvet dress the colour of ruby, with her hair pulled back into a neat bun and a feather boa curled around her shoulders like a death-delivering snake. He can see now, her cigarette is fitted in a regal holder with gold and ebony hues and when she brings it up to her lips to take a drag, her face is illuminated in soft amber and Wallace’s eyes are drawn to the small beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. She’s standing not quite two feet in front of him now with a look that’s soft but stone as she reaches into her large bosom and pulls something out. She ghosts the item across one of her breasts in a seductive caress before holding it out for Wallace to see.

“Well,” she begins with the smallest grin of amusement tugging at her candied cherry lips. “If you’re going to be offering your services to the pigs of Ergastulum, at least make a dollar or two from it, boy. No one gets far in life by giving away commodity for free.”

With a flick of her wrist she tosses the item in his direction and it hits him square in the chest and falls into his lap. While he’s busy looking for it, he hears the woman’s heels shift as she makes her way back toward the entrance of the alley. Wallace doesn’t pay her any mind until he finds the rectangle in a shallow puddle in between his half-bare legs. When he brings it up to the light and squints, he sees the washed-out green of money and when he unfolds the bill he finds it’s a hundred dollar note.

“Hey!” he screams after her. Fury-fueled adrenaline pumping through his veins is what gets him to his feet, holds him steady even when he starts to sway. “Hey, what the fuck is this?” He’s thrusting the bill in her direction while his other hand works frantically on pulling his pants up over his hips.

The woman looks over her shoulder and purses her lips. “Think of it as… an incentive,” she purrs as she turns to disappear into the dusk that’s fallen over the streets of Ergastulum.

“I’m not a whore!” Wallace shouts, and it echoes like gunshots through the corridor.

“No,” the woman replies, “but you could be.” She’s still holding firm except Wallace can detect the silky mirth in her voice and for a minute all he can envision is shutting her up by wrapping his hands around the folds of skin at her neck.

“Screw you! Just who the hell do you think you are?” Wallace catches up to her, but she’s not really trying to give chase. He grabs her by the arm and tugs so that he can finally get a clear look at the woman who’s been mocking him for the last ten minutes and he can read the intrigue scribbled all over her heavily made up face.

“Listen here, boy. You’re new to these parts so I’m going to give you a pass, simply because you _don’t_ know who I am, but let me educate you. I am Georgiana, an important and executive asset for the Corsica family. You may call me Big Mama. There’s a lot you need to learn about this city and there aren’t too many people that will take kindly to a little brat with a foul mouth like yours. Do you understand the predicament you’re in, child?”

Wallace freezes, and it isn’t because he’s scared but the air around them changes, almost like he’s in the presence of royalty and that the woman before him deserves more than just his utmost attention but also his respect and devotion, and he can’t help but feel suddenly insignificant and utterly in over his head.

Georgiana slides a satin-clad hand across his marred cheek, tucks a lock of his dirty hair behind his ear. “You’re a handsome one,” she says with a smile that Wallace can’t read as anything but genuine. “You’ll make a lot of enemies out here if you’re not careful. How about you work for me and make a lot of money instead?”

Wallace opens his mouth to protest, yet the money is still clenched in his fist. “But I –”

“I know,” Georgiana interjects. “But wouldn’t you rather be the one in control?”

He swallows, the absurd idea is making more sense in his head then it should but he can’t seem to wrap sound around an answer.

“What’s your name?” she asks, tapping the extinguished cigarette from her holder.

His tongue slips before he thinks of a smarter response. “W-Wallace.”

The woman’s mouth puckers like his name’s left a bad taste on her tongue. “Oh. Well, that won’t do. A name like that will only get you trouble. Out here, you’ll be known as… Worick.”

Wallace doesn’t object, he doesn’t think at all. It isn’t like he hasn’t been searching for an alias since his family was murdered and he was supposedly taken captive. It dawns on him that the woman may actually know who he is, and maybe she’s aware that he’s from a wealthy family and she may quite possibly trying to extort money from him.

“And why should I trust you?” he asks wearily, though he had intended to sound more sharp and alert and in control, except exhaustion is crashing into him in waves and he’s barely able to keep standing, let alone barter with a woman obviously more experienced than he is.  

Georgiana ruffles his hair. “You’re just a boy, Wallace. But you’ve had to grow up a lot, haven’t you? Let Big Mama take care of you for a little while. When you’re ready, come find me. I’ll be working out of a club called _P_ _ussy._ ” She retreats out into the street and before Wallace has a chance to decline, the woman has sashayed her way down another winding alley.

It’s getting darker and he’s a long way from home and suddenly there’s nothing more welcoming than seeing that dumb smile on Nicolas’s face when he returns. There’s something in all this that’s worth it, and maybe it’s Nic or maybe it’s his Hail Mary but the longer Wallace thinks about the woman’s offer, the more he understands.

He’s got to make a life for himself now, and it’s not just him but it’s Nicolas too. Ergastulum is going to be his home, and he refuses to be a bottom feeder that lays in a dank alley with his ass exposed for all to take. No. He’ll find out who this Corsica family is, he’ll make the money to support him and Nic and they’ll make a name for themselves here. On _their_ terms and no one else’s. He won’t allow anyone else to take advantage of him or Nicolas again.

With the hundred dollar bill now a damp wad still crushed against his palm, Wallace makes his way toward home, and not the dilapidated building he resides in but the _who_ that makes it home, he can’t help but think Worick Arcangelo has a pretty nice ring to it.


End file.
